At long last, my 8 hour flight to London had ended! I was exhausted from not sleeping much, but knew I had to stay awake (I promised my aunt) to adjust to the time easier. Plus, I still had to be awake enough to pass border patrol, navigate the Underground, and find the hostel I was staying in. Navigating the Underground (subway system) and getting to the hostel (cheap sleeping spaces for backpackers) weren't going to be a problem since the Underground runs from below the airport directly to Kings Cross which was a block away from my hostel. Not a problem. What I was most worried about, was border patrol. I had been praying that, after everything, they would find NO reason to deny me NOW that I was actually IN London!!!
I approached the nice-enough looking woman, passport and paperwork in hand, and the best innocent smile I could produce. She took my passport and opened it to my visa and paused... paused! Looked back at me and asked, "did you spill something on this?" Oh no, I thought, this is it. I replied that I had not, trying to suppress the panic rising in my voice. Then we were both awkwardly, painfully (at least for me) silent as I awaited my judgment. "You're all clear." Relief! I was so overjoyed I just thanked her and stood there beaming until she looked up like I was incompetent and was regretting her decision. Trying to cover this sleep-deprived blunder, I quickly turned and pointed towards the gates I was obviously supposed to pass through. "Through here?" I asked, hardly waiting for the obvious reply before scurrying through them.
LONDON! I was official! The magical border that had eluded me for so long was crossed! I rushed past security and in no time was out of the terminal and headed to the Underground! I quickly double-checked where I was going (Piccadilly Line directly to King's Cross) and headed to buy my ticket. At first I thought it would be easier to use one of the automated kiosks to get my ticket, until I remembered that I was a dumb foreigner who didn't know what she was doing other than creating a long line. So I ducked out of the way and went to buy it from one of the real-life salesmen instead. Ticket in hand, I hurried down the stairs to the trains just as the Piccadilly Line was arriving.
Now, what I'm about to tell you is my first fact about London. London has different connotations or meanings to words that exist in America. I'm sure this will get me into plenty of trouble later, but this instance in particular has to do with the names of places. It brings me sheer joy and the happiest feelings ever to hear tube (train) stops properly pronounced in a British accent because the pronunciation is sometimes much different than the spelling. Or, in this instance, the spelling is right on, but the nonchalant tone of the automated voice is what does me in. .... In this instance, I spent one whole hour listening to the tube woman's voice proclaim "This is the Piccadilly line to Cockfosters..." at ever single stop. I know that I am immature and my American mind is taking this the wrong way, but I had to FORCE myself not to burst into tearful cackling with every pronunciation.
Now, back to the story. I made it to King's Cross a bit after 1pm here (7am home) and checked my bags into my hostel. I couldn't officially check-in though, until 2pm, so I decided to explore my block (afraid to go and further than that for the time). I knew that a trip around the block wouldn't take an hour, but was hoping to find a place to eat or get some much needed coffee. After a few failed attempts at sitting at very European/confusing shops that I was not comfortable enough to try and figure out the protocol for, I stumbled upon a very American Starbucks! Normally I hate Starbucks, and try to stay away from anything overtly American while I'm abroad, but I was desperate. So you'll understand when I say that I had never been happier to see a Starbucks in my life! I popped in there, ordered a coffee (which is MUCH stronger here than home) and camped out for an hour until I could officially get into my hostel.
Once inside, I realized how terribly small it all was. I wasn't expecting much, but the size was surprising. It was well decorated, though, and felt safe enough, so I went to work on situating my little bunk. I was in a room of 12 people, no bigger than my whole room in my apartment last year, bottom bunk. (Pic: Stock photo from the website, but exactly what my room looked like... plus baggage. Four bunk sets in a room.)Needless to say, I keep my valuables on me. All in all, it's pretty comfortable though. The curtains add a nice touch of privacy and everyone in my room is rather considerate. It's so fascinating to walk around and hear TONS of languages, smell unusual foods, see so many different people and backgrounds. The general feel of the place is relaxed, trying too hard to be cool, and a nice place to go where everyone is just trying to get to the next stop. Nonetheless, I can't wait to get a place of my own. (Sorry for the tense change, I'm writing this in one of the hot-spots of the hostel. Back to past tense.)
I'm going to stop here for brevity's sake (I can see it's getting LONG with so much more to go). So, read part 3! And I'll try to wrap it up soon.
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